


Welcome to Chicago

by CircusMeister



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, F/M, Human AU, M/M, Maybe gets violent later., we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19457716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircusMeister/pseuds/CircusMeister
Summary: When Arthur Kirkland finds himself thousands of dollars in debt to various people, some of whom don't play nice, he realizes his only choice for survival is to run all the way to America and live in Chicago on the charity of his cousin, Alfred. Unfortunately for him, this is out of the frying pan and into the fire because it turns out Alfred's downstairs neighbor, Ivan Braginski, just so happens to be one of the most deadly mob hitmen in the city. What is going on in this city and who can he trust?





	1. America

The road to the London airport was drowning in the kind of heavy fog you can only find in those wee hours between night and day. It smothered the flickering street lamps that were struggling to keep their heads above the fog’s weightless pull, leaving Arthur Kirkland to drive all but blind. Despite this, he felt himself press down harder on the gas pedal, desperate to make his three a.m. flight to Chicago. He flinched as headlights flashed at him from within the haze. Spectral eyes grew larger and larger until their bright yellow light filled the dingy cab of Arthur’s car and blinded him until, suddenly, they were gone leaving only a distorted echo in the darkness, and bright patches in his eyes.  
Arthur desperately wanted to slow down. He hated driving in the dark even on the clearest night, let alone in the fog. His muscles were bunched so tightly that he felt like a wind-up toy kept alive by nothing more than his own tension. He couldn’t miss this plane. Everything he owned was packed in the single, ratty leather suitcase stuffed in the trunk and there was no going back. He was thirty-three, with no job, no savings, and no prospects here in England. He didn’t even own the car he was driving. This was the last time he would drive it before he flew away and the junkers would come to pick up his rattling heap from the airport parking lot.  
Absolutely everything was riding on this, and Arthur had never felt so petrified. He strove to be cautious and practical in all things, as all decent people ought to and only took the most measured risks that guaranteed reward and cultivated a healthy, respectable, sense of ambition. This worked in his favour more often than not, however, as with any gambling, not every wager could turn out in one’s favour. Arthur had owned a rather successful tea shop in Whitby. He had started it when he was in his mid-twenties, and as an impressive young entrepreneur in his town, he stayed on top of the ageing competition.  
Arthur felt his teeth clench as he remembered the feeling of pride and confidence that had come with his success. The foolish - childish - hope that had compelled him to try to open a second shop, and in Leeds of all places. The damn place was more than seven times the size of Dunwich without nearly the same kind of competition! He wasn’t up against locals with their family-owned shops and traditional food, he was suddenly competing against… against… Starbucks and McDonalds and the goddamn Coffee Republic! The undertow had swept him away into the corporate sea before he’d even set foot on the beach.  
So he borrowed money. He’d taken it from anyone. He’d wheedled it out of his friends, family and eventually from men in seedy bars with low standards and high interest rates, only for everything to go belly up in less than two years. In a matter of months, Arthur was irreversibly indebted to the bank, several friends, most of his family and most worryingly, a few loan sharks.

He was worth £800 000 below zero. Arthur Kirkland, officially worth less than worthless.

Moving back in with his parents had probably been the most crushing blow. After fifteen years of solid independence and high prospects, seeing his childhood room again, now converted into a guest room, was like having a red-hot machete thrust into his still gaping wounds and twisted violently.  
“Of course it’s not your fault darling, and you can stay here until you get back on your feet,” his mother had said to him on the phone. He could hear her forced smile and it sounded like grinding cotton between your teeth. It was his fault though. He should have known better. He should have been more responsible. He should have done something, anything other than just wake up one morning to a notice from the bank telling him his account was overdrawn. It was disgusting how quickly and spectacularly he'd failed. Now he was a burden on his family, and he was quickly dragging them down like a pair of cement shoes, down into the murky depths of a river.

Not a week after he declared bankruptcy, he was approached by several men who pulled into an alleyway. They had heard what had happened to his shop and wished him the best for the future, because the other option was him being unable to pay up and that would mean they’d made a bad investment.  
“Lucky for us though, we never make bad investments. Our guys always pay up… in money or teeth.” 

That night, Arthur was unable to sleep for all the bruises on his torso. He tossed and turned but there was no possible way to lay down without the sharp pain of several fresh bruises. He never breathed a word about them though, no need to worry his family and everything was easily hidden with a long sleeved shirt. These men were professionals and managed to cause just enough damage to send him a message but not to the hospital. No broken bones and never the face. That’s evidence.  
However, months passed and as Arthur feel further and further behind o n his payments, he began seeing non-descript black cars and mysterious figures all over the place; most worryingly, circling the block outside his parent’s house.  
He realized he had to go, soon and in secret. He remembered looking through the boxes upon boxes of his mother’s keepsakes, looking for the Christmas card that would turn out to be his golden ticket to freedom.  
Every year for the past twelve years, a Christmas card was sent to his mother from the United States, Chicago specifically, from an Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams. It was always filled with vague, but heartfelt, well-wishes and one American dollar, though in recent years, the amount had gone up to twenty. His mother had always assumed it was from her nephews as she had a sister living in Montreal who married a Williams. They weren’t particularly close but she hadn’t been surprised they had moved to the States without saying anything. Still, it was a lifeline.  
Arthur used the most recent return address to track down a phone number and made the call. He had been ready to beg, grovel, barter and demean himself in any way he had to, but that turned out to be unnecessary. As soon as he told the voice on the other end who he was, the deal was struck. He hardly had the opportunity to ask for a favour before his request was granted. 

The eagerness was highly suspicious, but Arthur could no longer afford to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Alfred was apparently around twenty-five years old and infinitely better off than Arthur. Living in Chicago was not cheap and from what he had gathered Alfred was living rather comfortably. He too had thrown himself into self-employment as the owner of a gun range, but apparently had a better business sense than he. Arthur arranged to stay with him until he could establish himself in the States. He’d told him about his business going south and how he felt he could be successful again in the US. He decided to leave out the bits where he was a fugitive from illegal debts and leaving in such a hurry that he had no time to go through the altogether proper channels to legally stay as long as he intended to. Run first, questions later. All he needed a fresh start, and it was waiting for him right outside his now parked car.  
Arthur glanced quickly at his blocky digital watch, 11:36 its green, segmented numbers read. He was three and a half hours early. Three and a half hours early and still panicking. His old 1978 Austin Allegro was the last thing he was going to see from his old life, and it desperately needed an air freshener. He reclined the seat a little so he could lay down and consider. The ceiling of his car was stained and, now that he was looking at it, obviously sagging a little in the middle. How it had kept running this long on nothing but faith, trust and pixie dust was a mystery to him. He sighed as his stomach knotted itself into thistly tangles. Wasn’t this a little rash? He still had a chance here, in England. With people who had proper accents, drove on the correct side of the street, measured in goddamn metric for Christ’s sake! He sat up in his seat and felt his hand turn the ignition key without his permission. The Allegro coughed back to life. He couldn’t do this, it was too much. He hadn’t even been to bloody Scotland before! His hands were shaking, and so was the rest of him. He nearly threw up as nervous shivers wracked his body. He felt like a chihuahua and it was humiliating.  
He had to do this. It simply had to be done. He was in debt and in over his head. America was the land of opportunity. He would work hard, make money and start over. No looking back.  
The cold night air pushed the breath from his lungs when he kicked his car door open violently, not caring in the slightest if he damaged anything. He’d never see it again. The dim lighting of the airport parking lot was just enough to find his way by and nothing more. Suitcase in hand, he slammed the door shut and walked determinedly into the night fog.

~ O ~ O ~ O~

The next morning, Arthur was in Chicago. Jet-lagged, hungry, sore and nervous, he tried to navigate the gargantuan airport in search of a decent cup of tea. After a while, he realized he would have to settle for mediocre airport teabags as every restaurant there was eagerly overcharging desperate travellers. At least, he assumed they were… dealing in dollars, everything tended to look ridiculously expensive.  
The airport was stylishly designed (as many international airports are, trying to make a good first impression, Arthur supposed) with curved windows and walls that swooped high into the air to give one a feeling of smallness. Sun was streaming in and lit up the white hallways with a lovely natural light seldom achieved in rainy England. This simple fact, along with the meager caffeine in his system, greatly lifted Arthur’s mood. This was going to be a brand new start.  
He decided that, since he had no place to be quite yet and still had to phone a taxi to Alfred’s apartment, he could afford to just sit for a while and take in the hustle and bustle of an American airport. He sat in a waiting area by a window, just sipping at his tea and looking out to try and see the famous skyline he’d heard so much about. That is until two hands clapped down roughly on his shoulders.

“Artie! Hey! I’ve been waiting for ya by the door for forever!” an excited, American voice sounded from just above his head. Arthur spun around so quickly he splashed himself with tea, scalding his fingers.  
“Ow!- what? Hey!” He grunted, looking down at his ruined shirt with a frown. “What do you think you’re doing?” He looked up to see a tall blond man with blue eyes and rectangular glasses looking apologetic, but not really moving to help.  
“Oh dude, sorry. I hit people harder than I think sometimes.” Then his face broke out into a grin that, now that it was on his face, made his concerned look seem unnatural in hindsight. “But hey! I found ya! Welcome to Chicago!” He held out his hand warmly to Arthur who was busy wiping his own hands on his pants to try to rub away both the tea and the pain. “Call me Al!” Ah. This was Alfred. Arthur was relieved to know it wasn’t some stranger who happened to know his name. Now that he was looking, he thought that the blond of their hair and the cut of their jaws were vaguely similar, although Arthur’s green eyes had never once looked so openly cheerful, he was sure. He finally took Alfred’s hand with a curt smile. “Arthur.” Alfred let out a barking laugh as he throttled Arthur’s whole arm. “I knew that already dude, it’s written on your suitcase. Now come on, we got a lot to see!” The man never seemed to stop yelling and as he bounced away down the hall, Arthur had no choice but to follow him.  
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, I just assumed I would take a taxi to your apartment.” Arthur said, “I’m sorry that I made you wait.” Alfred just beamed at him.  
“Y’know what? Your accent is super fun. It makes me so happy just to hear you talk.” Arthur suddenly felt very self-conscious and a little miffed at being outright ignored. “Anyway, I’m parked like a million miles away dude, so let’s get going.”  
As they made their way out of the airport and across its expanse of a parking lot, it seemed Alfred tried his best to make conversation without really knowing how. “So, you’re gonna be staying with me for a while huh? Aunt Brittany told me you were having some money troubles. Well don’t worry about it, you can live with me rent-free, buddy! Well, I mean, until you get a job that is. We’re gonna have so much fun! I’m gonna take you around Chicago and show you the sights, introduce ya to all my friends, take you to my favorite bars… we’re gonna watch football! How’d you end up broke anyway? Booze? Drugs? Gambling? Was it a girl? It’s always a girl. Probably got ya wrapped around her finger and took ya for all you’re worth, huh Art? Well…” Alfred was clearly a rambler. And the only thing worse than a rambler was an overexcited rambler. Which Alfred, again, clearly was. Arthur couldn’t get a word in edgewise and it was getting on his nerves. He was almost starting to regret this arrangement. Hopefully, it would get easier to talk to him once he (and his accent) stopped being such a novelty. So he smiled politely and tuned him out until they reached the car; and what a car it was. A top of the line, red 1993 Cadillac Allante, looking fresh off the lot and shining like a commercial. Its white top was down, leaving the leather seats exposed to the elements, Arthur couldn’t even imagine leaving his own clunker unlocked while he ran into a store, let alone leaving the top down on a brand new car to wait for hours in the airport. He gaped at both the car and Alfred’s casual disregard for safety.  
“Pretty nice right? Just got her last month. Drives like a dream and she’s a total babe magnet.” Alfred winked, noticing Arthur’s expression and running his hand down the hood of the car. Then his smile turned mischievous. “Say, you wouldn’t wanna... drive it would ya?”  
Alfred Jones was unequivocally Arthur’s favorite person.

The pair cruised around Chicago all morning, going sightseeing and stopping here and there for photos and to meet up with Alfred’s friends. Arthur was a little wary of being thrown into so many social situations before he even got to put his suitcase down, but he was grateful for the warm reception he supposed. Nonetheless, he was relieved when Alfred told him that he was hungry, so the tour was being put on hold for a late lunch break.  
The bistro Alfred had picked was out of the way and situated in one of the more rundown neighbourhoods. Despite it being lunchtime, the smoky and dimly lit inside was quiet and almost empty, while the generically Italian music playing softly from the speakers in the ceiling only seemed to emphasize its desertedness. Booths lined the brick walls while a couple round, wire tables were scattered in the center of the room. It was a little intimidating, to be honest, but Alfred swung easily into the second booth from the door and gestured for Arthur to sit down. Then to Arthur’s horror, he inhaled deeply… and yelled at the top of his lungs, “HEY FELI! COMING OUT TO SAY HI OR WHAT?”  
Arthur was mortified. The two other people in the restaurant sent the two death glares but Alfred didn’t seem to notice at all. Soon, a small man with light brown hair and olive skin scurried out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a flour-covered apron.  
“Alfred! Hey, long time no see!” He bent down to hug Alfred, leaving white powdery stains on the man’s brown bomber jacket. “And who’s this? New friend?” he said with a wink, nudging his shoulder with an elbow. Alfred laughed, as loud as ever, earning some more glares.  
“Ew dude, he’s my cousin! And like, a dude.” Arthur blushed and reconsidered Alfred’s rank as his favorite person. Thankfully, the brown-haired man, (Feli?) was not nearly so socially inept. He leaned casually on the table and held his hand out for Arthur to shake.  
“Feliciano Vargas. So happy to meet you! Any friend of Al’s is a friend of mine!” He seemed to have the same kind of face as Alfred, that is to say, it seemed like smiling was the only expression at home on his face. This smile seemed a little softer when compared to Alfred’s loud one; if smiles could be loud that is. Somehow, Alfred’s managed it.  
“Um, Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”  
“OOOOH! An Englishman!” Felciano squealed. Arthur supposed he would have to get used to things like this.  
“Er, yes. I just moved from Dunwich--”  
“Is that in London?” Alfred interrupted. Arthur resisted the urge to freeze up in shock.  
“No, Dunwich is a town.”  
“Yeah? So how far away is it from London?”  
“Um--”  
“Nevermind him, Arthur. He really doesn't know anything,” Feliciano whispered, “When I told him my family was from Rome, it blew his mind that it still existed.” Arthur chuckled a little at that.  
“Hey what are you guys whispering about?” Alfred asked, kneeling on his bench so he could lean across the table. “Secrets?” He asked with a grin.  
“Nothing at all!” Feliciano said, standing up straight and making a pen and paper appear from seemingly nowhere. “What can I get for you two gentlemen?”  
“My regular and Artie here’s gotta try your Calzones,” Alfred said with a grin. Then he turned to Arthur and gave him a wink. “Trust me, you’re gonna love ‘em.” Arthur was a little peeved he didn’t get to make his own choice but wasn’t going to pick a fight on his first day.  
“No problem guys! I’ll be right back!”

The two made small talk while they waited for the food. Alfred bombarded Arthur with questions about England and the Queen and his accent and the food and the plane and it just went on and on, but Arthur was relieved that at least he didn’t have to be the one to hold up the conversation. Not that he was incapable, but was still severely jetlagged and could barely focus on anything right now.  
“Hey one second buddy, I gotta pee.” he said, suddenly getting up and rushing off to the little hallway in the back marked Restroom. Arthur was a little stunned by the man’s abruptness but unsurprised.  
He sat in awkward silence by himself until he heard the bell on the door give a little jingle. He turned to see who had entered. He felt his mouth fall open a little as he saw the huge figure that had just entered the restaurant. He was wearing a long grey coat and white scarf to match his similarly silvery-white hair. Why his hair was so pale, Arthur couldn’t imagine, he was clearly only in his mid-thirties at most and it did not seem dyed. Upon closer inspection, he supposed the colour could have been considered blonde? He had a very prominent nose and a generally hard look about him, not helped by the intimidating aura cast by his size and posture. He was hunched over the table in his booth, taking swigs from a flask and scowling. Arthur imagined that, underneath that coat, he was well-muscled and probably scarred. He looked the type to be. Then suddenly, the man’s eyes met his. They were a cold grey that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. Unthinkingly, he held the man’s gaze, then realized with a sharp fear that he had been staring for at least ten seconds straight. He dropped his eyes in a panic and he heard the man huff and take another drink.  
It wasn’t long until Alfred emerged from the bathroom. He rounded the corner of the hallway, still wiping his hands on his t-shirt, when something caught his eye. His grin contorted darkly and he stood up a little straighter. Instead of coming back to his own table, and his waiting housemate, he made a beeline for the big newcomer’s table. He sauntered in what he must have thought was an intimidating way, his thumbs in his belt loops and chin held high, but he only succeeded in looking like a little kid playing cowboy. Which, judging by what he said next, might have been a little too apt a description.  
“Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face around here again, Ivan.” he smirked, finally reaching the booth. The man didn’t look up, but took a swig from his flask. The restaurant had somehow gone even quieter and the two men who had been quietly chatting had turned to watch. Arthur saw them each place a 20 dollar bill on the table in front of them. This was clearly not the first time this had happened. “What, cat got your tongue, comrade?” Alfred said, a little louder, leaning on the table and placing his hand right where Ivan had been about to set his drink. Arthur hissed through his teeth. A poor choice on his cousin’s part. There was no way Alfred could take that titan. Sure, Alfred clearly worked out and was impressively built but, no. This guy was another level. Arthur expected to see Alfred sprawled out on the floor in a total KO in two seconds flat, but that was certainly not what happened.  
“Why hello Alfred! I didn’t see you there. How are you feeling today?” the man asked, turning to look at Alfred with the softest smile Arthur had ever seen. The plastic happiness on Ivan’s face was probably scarier than any anger he could have expressed. It was a mask, and like all masks, was inherently scary not only for its own uncanny fakeness but the uncertainty of what it could be concealing.  
“Great, actually. I think you need to get to the gym more, Matthew hit me harder than you. Bruise already cleared up.” Alfred said with a grin.  
The man hummed happily. His russian accented voice was higher and more soft-spoken than Arthur would have guessed. “That is wonderful to hear. I pride myself on knowing exactly how to beat a man without leaving too much evidence.” What? What was Alfred doing? Why did he enjoy poking bears?!  
“Sure dude. Maybe you just got a couple lucky shots in, but obviously they weren’t lucky enough cuz I’m still standing.” Alfred countered, leaning down to get into the man’s face. The man just continued to smile.  
“I’ve always been a lucky man Alfred. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you. Remember that.” The room suddenly went cold as all the heat in the room was sucked away to power the hate-filled coal fire that was burning across the room.  
Arthur was incredibly relieved when Feliciano popped out of the kitchen with an armful of styrofoam containers.  
“Sorry for the wait, I saw Ivan come in and I had to go re-pack your food,” he whispered, setting down the pile of food, he seemed both on edge and completely exasperated. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s to-go,” he looked genuinely apologetic and very put-upon, “please just play along, it’s better that way.” Arthur shrugged and nodded, watching as Feliciano went to take Ivan’s order, ‘accidentally’ shoving Alfred to the side. He seemed a little upset about it until he realized that that meant he had food of his own. He practically ran over to their table with a big grin, but it fell into a look of confusion when he saw the to-go boxes. “I could've sworn we were gonna eat in…” he said, scratching his head. Arthur gave him a shrug and steered him out of the restaurant.  
“I definitely heard you say to-go, c’mon, we’re leaving.”  
Arthur dragged Alfred into the parking lot by his elbow while Alfred was already chewing on a slice of pizza he had snagged from the box. 

“What the hell was that Alfred?” Arthur asked as he slammed the passenger side door closed. Alfred had already lept into the driver’s seat, calling dibs.  
“What was what?” Alfred looked genuinely confused, his voice muffled by his mouthful of pizza.  
“You, trying to pick a fight with that russian bloke! Do you know him?”  
“Well duh I know him, I’m not gonna just get up in some random guy’s face.” Alfred said, exasperatedly waving his pizza around, accidentally flinging some cheese onto the seat. Arthur was relieved to hear that at least.  
“Ah, I see, so it was just an odd... buddy thing you do?” Arthur tried to confirm. Alfred began to laugh. Loudly. Arthur was concerned he was about to choke on his pizza  
“N-Nah,” he stuttered between guffaws, “I hate that guy. Waitwaitwait, check it out,” Alfred gulped down his pizza and began to lift up his shirt. Arthur was suddenly very uncomfortable and glued his eyes to whatever he could see out the windshield. “I was kinda lying when I said the bruises already faded, he hits pretty hard. Not as hard as me though. Obviously.” Arthur peeked over and did a double take when he saw the familiar huge splatterings of purple tinged with green and yellow that were peppered all over Alfred’s torso. He was a little surprised the man could even move. It seemed Ivan wasn’t as subtle as he claimed to be, but he clearly knew what he was doing. Big bruises over the kidneys, solar plexus and gut were the largest with a smattering of smaller ones along the ribs. Arthur guessed Ivan hadn’t wanted to break them. Arthur felt his hand reach out to ghost over the bruises, but he snatched it back. He shouldn’t try to touch them.  
“He got a couple lucky hits in, but I bet he looks worse.” Alfred smirked. If that was true, it was no wonder the man was so miserable looking.  
“What the fuck were you fighting about?” Arthur breathed. He’d done a little brawling in his time, but this was… methodically savage. Alfred shrugged.  
“Eh, the usual. He was cheating at cards, I called him out for being a commie creep, he got offended and the rest is history.” Arthur’s face fell into his hands in exasperation. If Feliciano hadn’t shooed them out, Arthur had no doubt they would have gone for round two. Or perhaps round twenty would be more accurate from the way people acted around them.  
“You are a complete idiot Alfred Jones,” he moaned. Alfred just laughed again and grinned.  
“I’m a hero, Artie,” he said, revving up his car and pulling out of the bistro parking lot at high speed.

On the road again, Alfred soon seemed to have forgotten all about his encounter with Ivan and was instead singing at the top of his lungs to the radio as he drove. Normally, that could be endearing in its own way, but…  
“AND I-EE-I WILL AAALLWAYS LOVE YOU-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO!” Alfred sang, or rather, yelled. The top of the car was still down and there was nothing to shield innocent passerby from his musical assault. Arthur had to hand out shrugs and apologetic glances to try and distance himself from his cousin’s impromptu concert. He felt himself begin to sink lower and lower into his seat.  
“Would you please quiet down Alfred? People are staring!” Arthur hissed up at him from the car floor. Alfred just shot him a look that said are they? I hadn’t noticed and cranked the music louder.  
Hopefully they would get to his apartment soon. Or crash. Arthur really had no preference at this point. 

Through some mercy of the universe, they did eventually reach a more residential area of the city and Alfred toned it down. The street was lined with well-manicured grass and what Arthur always referred to in his head as “city trees”, evenly planted, and precisely trimmed little things, proudly sporting their fall colours for the few weeks before the notorious Chicago wind stripped them naked for winter. The buildings were much the same, never much taller than three stories, the stocky red and white brick buildings with decorative archways and window accents had a uniquely American charm to them. Practical, uniform, and optimized for space, they radiated a dense urban atmosphere that Arthur couldn't help but like.  
Alfred swung his car into a parallel park outside one of the buildings (Arthur would have to learn the number as it was practically identical to all the other buildings on the street) and jumped out of the car over the door rather than opening it. Arthur opted out of that particular display.  
“Here we are! Home sweet home, compadre!” he said, making a full-bodied gesture to the whole building as Arthur was grabbing his suitcase from the trunk, “Mi casa es su casa!” It was actually quite a lovely building. It seemed to have three flat-style apartments, with each floor belonging to a tenant, but Arthur couldn’t really be sure until they got inside. Both sides of the building were flanked by a hexagonal tower with windows on each face, and over the newly painted black doorway was a cement arch that read Est. 1942. Alfred ran over to Arthur and slung his arms around his shoulders, making Arthur flinch. “That one's mine,” he said, pointing to the third floor excitedly, “I got the penthouse, baby!”  
“I don’t think having an apartment on the third floor really qualifies as a penthouse Alfred, but as you were,” he found himself saying dryly. Alfred just laughed and gave his shoulders a shake.  
“You’re so funny Artie.”  
After putting up the roof on Alfred’s car (at Arthur’s vehement request) the two men walked themselves up the small sidewalk to through the large wooden door and into what might be called the lobby. It was little more than a small boot-room with a wall lined with scratched up golden mail lockers and a door that led to the stairs. Arthur was suddenly quite glad he didn’t have much stuff as he wouldn’t like to lug anything up two flights on that narrow staircase. Someone had put a little vase of fake flowers on a stool next to the door though, that was cute. Suddenly, Alfred tugged the suitcase out of Arthur’s hand, flashed him a grin and an I gotcha buddy, and began the climb up the stairs. Arthur once again had no choice but to follow.  
“How 'bout I give ya the grand tour?” Alfred said as they walked. “First off, the elevator’s been broken forever and I honestly don’t expect Yao to get it fixed anytime soon, so, sorry bud, you’re about to get some buns of steel. There’s only three floors and three guys living here though, so it’s not too bad. The first floor’s Yao, he’s the landlord and an ok dude. He’s got loads of great stories and doesn’t evict me when I’m a whole two months late on my rent! Yelled a lot about it, but didn’t evict me!” He said cheerfully. “You’ll meet him probably tomorrow, he likes to know everybody who lives here. Don’t get weirded out when you see him though, he looks my age but he’s actually, like, forty. He’s basically a grandpa when you get to know him.” The pair reached the second landing and passed it without comment which Arthur found odd. “Oh yeah, we got a laundry room and some storage in the basement, so that’s great. I hate going to the laundromat. It’s such a waste of time.” Alfred continued, not missing a beat. That was good, Arthur noted. He wasn’t particularly fond of the strange spectacle that was a laundromat on a Sunday afternoon either. People, either half-naked or sporting their tackiest I <3 MOM / Fishing is for Real Men t-shirts, savagely competing for one of the few dryers that worked. A fresco of human nature at its purest and most unwashed. 

Soon they had reached the third-floor landing and as Alfred patted himself down trying to find the keys in his hand, Arthur was hit with a sudden wave of reality. This was real. His new life was here, in America, in this apartment, with… Alfred. Not that he didn’t like the guy, but being around him was giving him flashbacks to his days as a babysitter. Especially one kid, Peter. Now that boy was a handful. He was sweet enough, but followed Arthur around like a duckling and demanded to be treated like an adult despite being five and not even knowing how to tie his own shoes. At least his family paid well. Looking back now, Arthur was suddenly struck with the sneaking suspicion that Tino’s tall “roommate” was probably more than a friend. His twelve-year-old mind hadn’t even considered the possibility for a moment and now... well he’d rather not dwell on it.  
While Arthur lost himself in a completely unrelated mental tangent, Alfred managed to find the keys he was holding and open the door to the apartment. “Ta-da!” he said, kicking his shoes off and into the disorganized closet. Arthur stepped in right behind and was a little stunned.  
The door opened directly into the living room and the place was absolutely dripping with Americana of every sort. Flags and framed sports jerseys on the walls, signed basketballs, football helmets, on the shelves, eagle printed throw-pillows, presidential bobbleheads on the window sill and across from a huge flat-screen television, a big map hanging above the leather couch. Arthur could see that there were thumbtacks placed sporadically all over it, most likely indicating all the places he’d been, which was apparently a lot. It all seemed to be a disorganized mess, but in a tidy way? There was little in the way of cohesion to the living room, but it was clear that Alfred had recently put some elbow grease into making sure things were at least put away.  
The whole place was very decently sized, being that it was an entire floor. With a nicely open layout and plenty of windows, Arthur could see this being a very stylish place to live, if it didn’t have the interior design of your average man-cave. The kitchen was large and connected to the dining room where Alfred had a wooden table covered in coffee rings and scratches on one side, Arthur assumed that was the side he ate on, and a pretty new-looking chrome refrigerator and microwave. The stove on the other hand, was white, kind of beat up, and too small for its enclave, leaving poorly swept out gaps between the counter and its base.  
Alfred led Arthur down a short hallway with three doors, introducing them as they passed. “That first door’s the bathroom, please remember to flush and you can use my toothpaste and stuff if you want but if you do, be a pal and chip in for toiletries when you can,” he said with a wave of his hand, passing to the next door. “This one’s my room, it’s pretty sweet and you can come chill whenever, just don’t wreck my saved games though.” Alfred opened the door to his spacious but densely packed room. There were bookshelves on two of the four walls with a hectic collection of seemingly miscellaneous items. Comics, magazines, movies, video games and books were jumbled together with large superhero figurines and a framed photograph of Alfred and some other boy who looked quite similar to him. The rest of the wall space was papered with posters. Everything from rock bands to scantily-clad girls on motorcycles to strange conspiracy posters with alien faces and pyramids with eyes. Alfred seemed to have a wide variety of… unique interests. He even had a computer. The boxy, convex monitor was sitting on a desk near the window, the little box (a modem?) was humming quietly underneath.  
Arthur realized at that moment that despite the sports car, nice clothes, gym membership and confident demeanor, Alfred was an absolute geek. A kind-hearted jock, but a geek nonetheless. Hm. It seemed his cousin was full of surprising contradictions.  
Before he could comment, Alfred was already opening the third and final door at the end of the hallway.  
“The living room’s the one tower and you get the other! How cool is that? It’s empty cuz I figured you’d have your own stuff you’d wanna put in here, but I guess you just got the one bag.” Alfred said, jumping from the doorway and into the middle of the room with a flourish. Arthur followed him in, gazing happily at the semi-hexagonal, window-filled wall of the tower. But the room was indeed entirely empty and Arthur looked at his single suitcase, a little embarrassed. Alfred elbowed him in the ribs in what Arthur supposed was a reassuring way. “No sweat though dude, I got an old mattress and bedframe hidden in the basement and I know Yao’s got lots of old furniture he’ll sell for cheap. We can go shopping once you’re all settled in!”  
Arthur smiled. It looked like things were falling into place. A strange, new and unpredictable place, but a place nonetheless. His cousin was friendly and generous, if a little grating; Alfred seemed to be a popular guy, at least with italian restaurateurs,, so he had a bit of a vicarious social circle already, and this room was a totally blank slate with a lot of potential. He would make it homey in no time. This was, all in all a very promising first day.  
“And that’s the tour!” Alfred said proudly, back in the front room, “any questions?” Now that he mentioned it, Arthur remembered that there was something that struck him as a little odd.  
“I think you forgot to tell me who lives on the second floor, I only know about you and Yao.” Arthur answered. Suddenly Alfred’s face fell and he was silent, a complete emotional 180 at the mere mention of the second-floor tenant.  
“Oh. Yeah,” he mumbled, “Remember that jerk I was talking to in the bistro? That’s the guy who lives under us. Ivan Braginski.”  
“What?!” Arthur squeaked, he didn’t know how this could possibly become more volatile  
“Yeah, if I were you, I’d steer clear of him, he’s one of the most dangerous mob enforcers in the city,” Alfred said, his face nonchalant. Arthur took it all back, he was living in a powder keg.


	2. Settling In

“You live on the floor above a Russian mob enforcer who beats you absolutely black and blue on what I understand to be a regular basis?!” Arthur cried, just barely keeping his hands from throttling Alfred’s absolutely infuriating neck. He didn’t seem to understand that this wasn’t normal. Normal people don’t start fights that bruise them up so badly their skin looks like an oil spill of bruising. They certainly don’t come back for more, and they certainly don’t live above criminal hitmen! “Did you call the police at least?” Arthur squeaked, trying not to sound hysterical. Alfred frowned and raised his hands defensively.  
“We don’t call the police around here,” he said, “they wouldn’t help anyways.” Arthur felt his eye start to twitch.  
“Why on earth not?!” Alfred just scratched at the back of his head.  
“Umm, it’s complicated. Let’s just say, ‘Ol Benjamin Franklin’s a really good lockpick if you get my drift, and I just don’t trust cops anyway. Besides,” he grinned, “I’m not some pussy who goes running to mama when the other kids on the playground are mean to me. I hit back and I hit harder,” emphasising the last part by pounding his own fist into his other palm. Arthur raked his fingers down his face in amazement. This idiot thought he was in Die Hard. 

Arthur felt his eyes glaze over behind his hands and the silence dragged on tortuously like a man tied by his ankles to the back of a truck. 

Eugh, he was getting grim.

Alfred soon began to rock back and forth on his feet, looking for any escape route. Finally, it seemed he decided the direct approach would be easiest. “Well… uh… see ya in like twenty minutes, Imma grab some chips from 7-11, want anything? Slurpee?” Before Arthur could register what he has just said, Alfred was already pulling his shoes back on.  
“I wouldn’t mind some crisps. Thank you,” Arthur mumbled, hearing the door crash open and a rushed “IdunnowhatthosearebutI’lllook!” called out before the door slammed shut again and Alfred's tacked on “Later!” echoed down the stairwell. Ugh. 

I suppose I’ll unpack then, he thought, shuffling back to his room and sitting on the window sill with his tattered suitcase in his lap. The autumn sun was just starting to dip below the skyline and cold orange light spilled into the bedroom. Arthur undid the clasps on the suitcase and opened up the lid. Right on the top was a framed photo wrapped in newspaper. Gingerly, he unwrapped the little package to reveal the faces of his rather large family. His mother, father and four older brothers were smiling up at him from a picnic scene. This was a photo from last year’s St. George’s day when they had all come back home for a pleasant weekend together. An incrediby special occasion for and entire family scattered all over the UK. Last Arthur had heard, Allistor was working a rig in Scotland, Dylan was farming in Wales, and the twins, Seamus and Connor, were both in Ireland doing office jobs and having families. He didn’t think they were in contact with each other though. Out of the whole brood Arthur had been the only one to stay in England with their parents and in his own mind, he’d always sort of considered his brothers a bunch of runaways. Well... irony was a bitch. He sighed and set the photo down on the window sill. 

Just underneath the photo was a manila envelope filled with copies of his resume, then about a week’s worth of clothes and a towel, and a little baggie that had a toothbrush, travel toothpaste and a comb. He placed these as neatly as he could on the floor of his closet but his pile of clothes was lopsided.

He sighed and turned back to the last items in the suitcase, an old, well-read, illustrated copy of Peter Pan and a green bunny rabbit doll. He would leave those in the suitcase, he couldn’t risk anyone seeing them. 

Much to his shame, as he was throwing the tattered shreds of his life into a battered leather bag at two in the morning before fleeing the country, nostalgia had gripped him by the balls and in a moment of weakness, he had shoved his favorite childhood friends into his suitcase and buried them in clothes. Looking at them now, he couldn’t say he regretted bringing them but he was certainly not going to let anyone see them. 

With everything he owned in the world slumped in the corner of an empty closet, and he himself slumped over in the middle of an empty room, he had used up only five of the twenty minutes he had been allotted to ‘settle in’. He sat in silence for a moment, willing his eyes to refocus but finding that they slipped very quickly back into a haze. Suddenly, he snapped to check his watch again to make sure he did really have time before Alfred came back then snatched Peter Pan out of his suitcase and sat back down on the window sill, knees curled up to his chest and began to read. 

All children, except one, grow up....

Arthur nearly tumbled off his perch when the front door slammed open and a thunderous “Honey, I’m home!” rolled through the apartment like a stampede. Arthur threw the book back into the suitcase and clasped the lid shut before walking as casually as he could into the living room. Alfred was busy tossing two shopping bags full of junk food onto the kitchen table. “Hey Artie! Sorry, I asked about crisps but they said they didn’t have any. I got a whole bunch of chips though, so you gotta like at least one flavour.” He said, dumping one of the bags out to reveal four family sized bags of ‘chips’.  
“These are crisps Alfred, did you not actually get any chips?” Arthur asked, picking up a bag of BBQ flavour. Alfred just looked confused.  
“What? You’re kidding right? I know for a fact that y’all speak English in England. It’s in the name,” Alfred said, shaking a bag of salt and vinegar at Arthur.  
“Wait a tick, you think these crisps are chips? What do you call chips here then?” Arthur asked, Ernest a bit confused.  
“What? We call chips, chips, dude.” Alfred said, already crunching on his snack, eyebrows furrowed.  
“I mean, the little fried potatoes you eat with burgers.”  
“Those are fries, my man. French Fries.” Alfred said, his expression becoming more and more concerned, “I think our countries are having a disagreement about the proper potato nomenclature here bud.”  
“And here I was, thankful for the lack of a language barrier.” Arthur smiled, ripping open the BBQ chips/crisps and stuffing a couple in his mouth, “truly foolish of me, I see.” Alfred’s eyes lit up and he pulled Arthur into a bone (and snack) crushing hug. Arthur immediately tensed up in confusion.  
“I think that’s the first time you smiled all day! I thought maybe you didn’t like me.” Alfred said, his voice radiating pure joy.  
“Of course not Alfred. I’m ...I’ve… just been tired. I’m… I’m sorry you felt that way,” Arthur wheezed as he awkwardly patted Alfred’s back, “please put me down.” In his excitement, the taller Alfred had lifted Arthur a few centimeters off the ground.  
“Oh yeah, right,” Alfred said, having the decency to sound a little embarrassed, and dropped Arthur immediately. “C’mon, I got the BBC, we can sit around and eat some crispy chips for a while.” said Alfred, taking his bag and leaping onto the couch. Truth be told, Arthur wasn’t a huge fan of the BBC, but Alfred was clearly trying to be accommodating and the effort was charming. If you looked closely enough, Arthur thought you would probably find that Alfred was just a golden retriever in a star-spangled trench-coat. A golden retriever who liked to brawl and didn’t trust authority figures, but... ok maybe it wasn’t a one-to-one comparison but Arthur stood by the analogy.

Two hours of murder-mystery television and panel shows later, The sun was down and Arthur was thinking about where he was going to sleep that night.  
“Uh, sorry, don’t want to be a bother, but should I just sleep on the couch tonight?” Arthur asked. Alfred quickly checked the clock on the wall.  
“Whoops, it’s already ten-thirty. You’re not sleeping on the couch though, this is your place now, and you don’t sleep on the couch in your own place. Let’s go grab you your bed. I took it down cuz I assumed you’d have your own stuff.” Alfred got up and stretched his arms up over his head and yawned, crumbs falling from his shirt onto the carpet. Arthur looked down to hide the little angry flare of red that had spread over his cheeks. 

The basement was an unfinished cement hall with four doors, two on each side. The doors were labelled Laundry, Boiler, Storage and one was left blank, a large, visible lock added above the doorknob.  
“Alfred, what’s in that blank door?” Arthur asked. Alfred was silent for a moment and looked at it.  
“Just some gardening supplies Yao never got rid of.” he said.  
“Why has it got an extra lock on it then?” Arthur pushed.  
“It’s expensive stuff and Yao doesn’t like other people touching his things.” Alfred shouldered past Arthur to get to the storage door and fished around in his pockets for the key. Arthur stood back and listened to his absent-minded mumbling and the steady hum of the boiler. Finally, the door swung open and Alfred lead them inside. The room was filled with three large fence-wire cages, like outdoor bike parking, that each seemed to belong to one of the tenants.  
“This one here’s mine, the second one’s Yao’s and the last one is Ivan’s. He doesn’t keep much shit down here, but even I don’t have enough of a deathwish to ask what it is he’s got. I, on the other hand...” he sighed, motioning to the stacks of boxes, trunks and bags piled nearly to the ceiling. They almost seemed to sway under their own weight, threatening to topple.  
“Woah.”  
“Yeah, I had to move some of this junk down here from your room but most of it’s work stuff since we don’t have a good enough storeroom to keep it in. Some of it’s not even mine,” Alfred moaned, clearly a little annoyed. Arthur was about to ask who’s things he was keeping when Alfred let out an ‘Oh!’ and disappeared behind a pile.  
“Hold the other side of the pile! I gotta yank the bed frame box out and I don’t want the tower to fall on you!” Alfred called out, his voice muffled by a wall of cardboard.  
“Are you sure that’s wise?”Arthur called back, worried but throwing out his arms to brace the nearest couple boxes.  
“Yeah it’s fine! Think of it as... High! Stakes! Jenga!” Alfred’s last three words were punctuated by grunts and the wobbling of boxes as he tugged at the bedframe. Arthur jumped as he heard the dull thump of a couple boxes hitting the floor.  
“Are you ok Alfred?” Arthur called.  
“Oof, yeah dude, that was just some old clothes,” he said appearing again with a long box under his arm that clanged metallically as he moved as well as a metal head and footboard under his other arm. “I got these, you wanna grab the mattress?” Alfred asked, pointing to a mattress that was leaning against the chain link side of the cage.  
“Um, by myself?” The mattress was larger than he was in all dimensions, he had no idea how he would move it alone.  
“You’re strong enough right? It just saves us a trip if you can grab it. But I can run back down and help you out if you want…” Well. There was only one response to that.  
“O-of course I’m strong enough! I only asked because… because… well I can get it. You go on ahead.”  
“You sure buddy?” Alfred said, now looking between Arthur and the mattress, sizing them up.  
“Of course! I’ll catch up, you get a headstart on putting the frame together,” Arthur began to shove Alfred out the door, the bedframe clanging together loudly and echoing off the bare cement walls.  
“Alright alright, I’m going! Jeez!”

As soon as Alfred’s jangling disappeared up the stairs, Arthur felt his considerable scowl relax and morph into pure exasperated distress. How the bloody hell was he going to move this stupid mattress? It was at least 40 kg of cumbersome springs and foam. Could he be more of an insecure idiot? 

Unfortunately, self-deprecation doesn’t solve problems. If it did, Arthur would probably be a millionaire tea-tycoon by now. So, in the absence of any better ideas, Arthur began to push. 

It took him a good five minutes of awkward, halting labour to get the thing to the stairwell that led to the entryway hall. The fabric of the mattress did not slide well on the gritty concrete and Arthur was terrified of accidentally stripping the fabric clean off so he had had to resort to sort of, waddling it over like a some sort of sad, rectangular duck. After a short break, he began to heave the thing up the stairs. To his disgust, that process took another five minutes due to the fact that if one pushes a mattress it is inevitably caught on the next step if the angle isn’t just so, and if one pulls it, the lack of handholds is excruciating on the fingers. 

The painful process did eventually get him and his cargo up the stairs, but Arthur’s heart dropped at the idea of two more flights. After an extended moment of self-pity and staring at the broken elevator with equal parts longing and hatred, he sighed and took up his position, ready to begin pulling the cursed thing up against the will of gravity. He was nearly half-way up the first part when the sound of the front door swinging open made him jump and the mattress to slide back down to the bottom.  
“GODDAMMIT!” Arthur screamed, running down after the mattress. A figure had paused in the doorway, barely concealing a quiet giggling. Arthur once again felt his blood begin to boil. Striding up to the man, fists clenched, he said: “Oi! Think that’s funny? I oughta-” Then he stopped in his tracks. The figure was the man from the bar, Ivan. The hitman. Wonderful.

The man just smiled down at him and cocked his head a little. “You ought to what?” he asked. Arthur gulped, but held his ground, veering toward a decidedly less violent approach than he had been originally planning.  
“I ought to demand an apology,” he said calmly, focusing on not letting his voice shake. The man towered over him, his ursine frame made all the bulkier by his heavy coat. He stepped forward, getting into Arthur’s space, forcing him to crane his neck up to look the man in the eyes.  
“And will you?” he asked, Arthur noted that the soft-spoken voice he had thought so odd in the restaurant suddenly made a lot more sense. It was scary. Like hearing a rattling in tall grass.  
“Will I what?” Arthur asked, struggling against his instinct to step back.  
“Demand an apology.”  
“I - yes. It would the polite thing for you to do,” Arthur said, not confident in his ability to intimidate, so falling back on courtesy to save face with Ivan. The man’s smile fell and a tense moment of silence fell between them, only to be suddenly broken by laughter. Ivan was laughing, not the same quiet giggle, but a full bellied laugh where he threw his head back. It was… disconcerting. Ivan slapped a heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder that nearly buckled his knees.  
“Oh, I like you. I tell you what I will do, I’ll help you with your mattress,” Ivan said. Despite his eye beginning twitch from the embarrassment of being laughed at, Arthur did not relish the idea of carrying the mattress by himself. Clearing his throat, he said “Alright then. That would be much appreciated.” 

With that, Ivan grabbed one end of the mattress and began to drag it easily up the stairs. Arthur picked up the other end but it was more of a formality than any real help.  
“I saw you in the bistro today yes?” Ivan asked, not leaving room for silence, the earlier incident apparently forgotten. Arthur nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. A Mob hitman was helping him move in! “Yes I thought so. I recognize your very large eyebrows.” Arthur felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and anger. He felt eyebrows were perfectly dignified thank you very much. “Are you moving in with Alfred then? You’re obviously not moving in with Yao or I.” Arthur gave a curt nod again. “Ah, I see. I always knew Alfred was some sort of homosexual,” Ivan said airily, giggling again. Arthur promptly tripped on the stairs and lost his grip on the mattress as he began to splutter.  
“W-what? How- Why? I- I’m his cousin you presumptuous twit!” His face was now most certainly red. Most likely redder than it had ever been before. What made this man this he was gay? Was Arthur not manly... respectable? And what was Alfred doing to give Ivan that impression of him anyway? For a moment, Ivan’s childish smile was replaced with surprise, but it was soon back with a fervor.  
“I see,” Ivan seemed to be thinking, staring absently at Arthur’s face, seemingly trying to gage something. Arthur felt as if the man’s pale eyes were seeing through his skin. “I am Ivan Braginski.”  
“Yes, Alfred told me all about you.”  
“Did he now? And here I was hoping that we could start off on the right foot.”  
“Well...”  
“It is alright, I know what he thinks of me and he knows what I think of him. There are no illusions.”  
“Well, I guess if we’re going to be frank, he certainly hasn’t been singing your praises.”  
“I should hope not,” Ivan laughed, “I might worry for his mind if he did!” Arthur really wasn’t sure what to say to that so the two men walked in an uncomfortable silence, at least for Arthur.  
This man was very different from the dour behemoth he'd seen in the bistro. That man's face has been so stony it seemed the smallest smile might shatter his features to dust while this Ivan laughed freely and with the morbid, unfiltered humour of a child. Was he putting up a front? Lulling Arthur into a false sense of security? How much did he know Arthur knew? The uncertainty of him made Arthur want to run but also found he was tethered to him by gruesome curiosity.

Very soon, the two men reached the third floor and Ivan easily propped the mattress up against the wall next to the door.  
“Tell Alfred that he is a terrible host for making his guests do menial labour,” Ivan said with a nod at the door. Arthur smiled half-heartedly and held out his hand for the man to shake, thanking him for his help.  
“It is no problem but maybe you should get to the gym more often da?” he chuckled, crushing his hand in his grip. Arthur kept his strained smile on his face, trying to conceal his grimace of both physical and emotional pain. With that, Ivan turned and meandered down the stairs again, only to stop in his tracks and turn back to face Arthur.  
“Oh, you must come have dinner with me this week. Perhaps this weekend. I cannot have Jones entirely in charge of my image.” Arthur looked at him in shocked silence. He didn’t know how to say no in this situation. He was trapped by the very social conventions he had been using to protect himself. “Eight o’clock this Saturday. I’ll be making pirozhki.” Arthur listened to him leave and didn't move until the sound of footsteps had faded into silence. 

Stillness hung in the air for a moment before Arthur turned around and braced himself against the wall, listening to his blood rush in his ears. His new neighbour, Ivan Braginski, had just helped him move in and then invited him to dinner… if it weren’t for the minor inconvenience that Ivan was a murderer, the scene would have been achingly suburban. Arthur was lucky he caught himself before he had gotten aggressive. He was nowhere even resembling that tank in size or strength. "Do you have a death wish?" he murmured to himself, staring into the tacky carpet print, wishing for it to swallow him up. He really needed to fortify his ego… the lengths he would go to for pride were getting ridiculous. 

He stood in the doorway for God-knows how long trying to ride out his adrenaline crash. It seemed a millenium had passed before he realized he had to come to terms with the fact that he would probably be shaking for the rest of his life. He eventually managed to open the apartment door and drag the mattress into his bedroom. In the half hour it had taken for Arthur to catch up, Alfred had assembled the frame in the centre of his bedroom and fallen asleep in the middle of it. He was lying on his stomach and snoring softly into the hardwood floor, glasses crushed against his temple. Arthur felt his face soften and he lowered the mattress to the ground and snuck off for a moment into the apartment. He came back with a blanket and pillow from Alfred’s bed and gently placed the pillow under Alfred’s head, draped the blanket over him then laid himself down on the mattress. He didn’t even bother to brush his teeth. His hands were cold and he couldn’t stop going over how that scene had gone and imagining things he should have said, done, not done. Eventually, he resolved himself to not thinking at all anymore... only to be bombarded by the memory of the time he had accidentally started a fire in the oven when he tried to bake a cake when he was eight. 

Arthur crushed his face into his mattress and waited for unconsciousness to rescue him.


	3. Out Of Place

The next morning, both men were awoken by the sound of insistent knocking on the apartment door. Arthur felt his whole body stiffen for a fraction of a moment as he tried frantically to remember where he was, then heard Alfred’s alarmed snuffling as he shot bolt upright.  
“Wuh-where...oh hey Artie. G’morning.” Ah yes. He was sleeping on a bare mattress in his cousin’s Chicago apartment. He checked his watch and groaned when he saw that it was already… 1pm in Whitby right now. What time did that make it here? He must have really overslept. As Arthur struggled to muster the will to sit up, Alfred was already rushing to the door. Arthur kept his eyes half lidded against the gentle sun streaming in through the windows and listened to the conversation happening outside.  
“Why weren’t you answering the door Alfred?” said an angry voice with a strong Chinese accent.  
“Sorry, I was asleep! Can’t a man sleep-in to a decent hour on a Sunday morning?” Alfred shot back, a note of pleading in his voice.  
“A decent hour? It’s already 6 am, now you are just being lazy.”  
“This? Lazy? Yao, I was planning on getting up just in time to have supper for breakfast, you’re killing me here.”  
“You are such a child, Alfred.” There was silence and Arthur imagined Alfred must be pouting. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in to meet your new guest? I waited up last night, but I must have missed your knocking. I know you wouldn’t just move someone in without introducing me.”  
“Well, we were gonna come by today actually, but come back during normal people hours and maybe - Actually, no, we’ll come see you. Thanks, bye now, see ya later!” Arthur snickered as he imagined Arthur pushing some poor old man out the door and shutting it as quickly as he could without slamming it.  
Soon Alfred was stumbling back into Arthur’s room and retook his position on the floor. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh.  
“What are you doing Alfred? Go sleep in your bed,” Arthur murmured sleepily. All he got in reply was an equally sleepy “Oh yeah” then Alfred picked up his pillow and blanket and slouched out of the room like a zombie. Arthur shook his head and tried to get back to sleep. He lay there with his eyes closed, trying to remember the dream he had been having and where he had been pulled out of it, only to find that the harder he tried to fall asleep, the more awake he felt. The sun was warming his face and fall crows were cawing from the rooftops. Cars made rumbling sounds as they passed on the street and soon, he was able to hear the electricity in the light fixtures. He was clearly not going to be able to get back to sleep. His watch and his body both insisted it was now 1:30 pm.  
Well, he thought, this is my opportunity to show some hospitality to Alfred for all the help he’s given me, I guess. So, he sat up and powered through the dizzying headrush to stretch his arms over his head and hear his back and elbows pop in response. He dragged some clothes out of his suitcase, brushed his teeth and combed his hair, then meandered into the kitchen. He’d make some breakfast for Alfred to show his gratitude. He’d just fry up some sausages, tomatoes, maybe some bacon, and eggs; make some tea and toast…simple enough. He opened up the fridge and was happy to see Alfred had everything he needed. At least he could count on the man to be well stocked in food.

Within ten minutes, thick black smoke was rising from the stove, the toaster, and the sink as the smell of burning food began to permeate the apartment. Rubbery eggs had somehow been splattered against the walls and ceiling and the floor was covered in melted butter and bacon grease. Arthur was frantically opening windows and fanning the smoke away from the smoke detector as it shrieked a panicked beeping that could most likely be heard throughout the whole apartment block. Alfred burst out of his room, glasses askew and hair bedraggled, breathing hard.  
“Don’t worry Artie! I’ll get you out of here! There’s a fire escape on the-” suddenly Alfred was on his back with a wet thunk, his feet sliding out from under him as he tried to come to a stop on the greasy floor. Arthur was up on a chair trying to cover the alarm with his hands, the smell of incinerated eggs and toast and the muffled cries of the noble smoke detector were assaulting his senses. He looked down and saw Alfred’s eyes dart from place to place, piecing together the story in his mind. His mouth hung open in dismay and all Arthur could do was offer a sheepish grin in return.  
“New house rule, Arthur doesn’t cook.” 

Arthur clumsily tried to help Alfred clean up the mess but was soon thrown from the kitchen. Alfred was having a tough time understanding how Arthur had ever lived alone if he sucked this much at cooking. “You develop a taste for char after a little while. Honestly, I don’t think a meal is complete without it,” Arthur said trying to help but being shooed away from cleaning up the stovetop.  
“Now you’re a funny guy? Jeez. Since I’m up now, I may as well show you how it’s done.”  
“I’ll clean up then,” Arthur said, but Alfred fixed him with a scowl that sent him slinking from the kitchen.

Hopefully, joking around a little would stop Alfred from noticing that Arthur’s hands were sweating. Now Alfred would surely think less of him. Hate him probably, for making him clean up after him like he was the childish one. He may as well move out, he’d blown it. 

Arthur now found himself marooned in the living room with nothing to do except cough up the smell of smoke. He was just kind of… standing there, watching Alfred restart breakfast. Should he turn on the TV? He didn’t really know if he was… allowed to? Surely Alfred would say yes and probably laugh at him for asking, but this wasn’t strictly Arthur’s house so… The etiquette for this sort of situation was very grey to him. Alfred looked up from the toaster where he was fishing out the chunk of charcoal that used to be bread and gave Arthur a bored look that Arthur would be deciphering for the rest of the day.  
“Hey, if you’re just gonna stand there, go say hi to Yao, that’s the guy who woke us up this morning. He ain’t gonna leave me alone about introducing you but I don’t really wanna get yelled at any more this morning. You don’t mind going by yourself, right?”  
“Oh, um, yes, of course,” Arthur stuttered, shaking off his TV conundrum and Alfred went back to stabbing at the ‘toast’ with a fork.  
Arthur slipped on his shoes and started down the stairs, finding himself going a little faster past the second floor. He was suddenly struck with dread as he remembered that he had agreed to (been coerced into) having dinner with a hitman yesterday. It seemed his days were numbered.  
Arthur had only knocked on Yao’s door once when a voice yelled from somewhere behind it “Is that you with my rent, Alfred?”  
“Um, no, sorry,” was all Arthur could say before the whirring sound of multiple locks being opened sounded from the apartment and the door was flung open. Standing in front of Arthur was a small man, who was either about as old as Alfred, or had the most extreme case of baby face Arthur had ever seen. Alfred had warned him that it was the latter but, it seemed almost impossible to believe. With long hair tied smoothly into a ponytail, a round face, smooth skin, and the posture of a dignified young man, Yao was unsettlingly dissonant with the image Arthur had had in his head from this morning and before he knew it, he was being ushered inside with gentle but forceful hands. “Oh hello! You must be Arthur!” He said with unflinching certainty, “Come in, come in, have a seat, I will make you some tea.” His voice was very much the same one from this morning, but without the nagging edge Alfred had gotten. In fact, it was very pleasant and almost uncomfortably welcoming. Like meeting a family friend who somehow already knew everything about you, but you’d never seen before in your life. Arthur stepped nervously into the apartment and vaguely registered that it had the same layout as Alfred’s but couldn’t have been more different. The whole place was immaculate and tastefully decorated in reds, browns, blacks, and whites and distinctly Chinese fashion. Most of the surfaces were well-polished wood (lacking in coffee rings and scratches) and one of the walls had a large decorative panel of geometric patterns. Ink paintings of landscapes were hung here and there while statuettes and flowers were placed on bookshelves among books whose titles were illegible to Arthur. He supposed Yao had been responsible for the flowers by the door as he seemed to have the same ones sitting on his sizable television. Arthur glanced into the kitchen to see that there was a tablecloth on the table (not even Arthur was adult enough to feel the need to have a tablecloth). Photos of family members, maybe even his own children, lined the walls and were pinned to the fridge with little vegetable-shaped magnets. This was definitely the home of a fully grown man with more maturity in his little finger than Alfred would be able to muster for a funeral. He had a Goddamn china cabinet for God’s sake!

“I see Alfred sent his guest out to introduce himself alone huh? That boy is a disgrace I tell you,” Yao growled, putting a kettle on to boil, only for his voice to become sweet again as he turned to look back at Arthur, “what kind of tea would you like young man?” 

Young man? 

“Um, what have you got?” Arthur asked from his position, frozen on the welcome mat. He supposed he should be taking off his shoes now, but he still didn’t move.  
“Oh, most things, I think. I am a little bit of a tea collector. Come in, come in, please, come take a look.” Yao opened three cupboards, all filled to the brim with colourful tea varieties. That was the nudge Arthur needed to get moving. He slid his shoes off and stood by Yao’s side (the man’s head only coming up to Arthur’s nose) and examined the assortment.  
“Wow sir, this is really quite impressive! I used to run a tea shop myself and I think you’ve got more variety than my entire stock! Some of these are quite rare! Where did you find them?” Arthur didn’t notice Yao puffing his chest a little.  
“‘Sir’ huh? I like you, Arthur. Normally I do not disclose my sources, but I do not often find people who appreciate tea like I do. Especially not around here,” he said, rolling his eyes to look disdainfully at the ceiling. Yao took a pen and paper from a little holder on his counter and wrote down an address with steady, ornamental cursive. The word ‘Chinatown’ was underlined. “Not everything in my collection can be found there, but I cannot just reveal all my secrets, now can I?”  
The two were soon seated on the immaculate leather couch, sipping some Honey Orchid oolong and making small talk.  
“I am glad that Alfred is going to have someone responsible in the house again. I am amazed that boy is still alive for all the McDonald’s he eats now. You must teach him how to cook Arthur. At least a little.” Arthur fought to ignore the heat in his cheeks as he nodded politely.  
“Good boy. Now. Tell me about your tea shop. Your accent is English. Were you hoping to expand into America? The market is not spectacular for rare teas, but certainly there is a niche,” Yao said, leaning into the table, seemingly quite interested in Arthur’s answer. Arthur once again struggled to dismiss the burning sensation spreading to his neck as he tried to keep his smile from falling. He felt his mouth grimace instead.  
“Ah, you see, I actually came to America because the shop fell through. I was in the midst of expanding into a franchise, and -- well. That didn’t go well for me.” Arthur dropped his eyes to stare into his half-empty teacup. “Took everything, actually. But I’ve heard this is the land of opportunity and... Alfred was so kind as to offer me a bed to sleep in…” Yao’s face became sympathetic and he refilled both their teacups.  
“A very common story. Not too different from my own, actually. I am a doctor by trade but unfortunately, my degree, while prestigious in China, was not worth much when I had to move to America. I could only find work in small, rather desperate practices. Sometimes, taking a chance doesn’t work out for the best and you end up here.” Yao gestured vaguely to their surroundings. To Arthur this place didn’t seem so terrible in comparison to how he had been living when his shop failed, but he supposed it was different when you had invested your life and money into a doctorate that wasn’t quite pulling its weight. They sat in silence for a moment until Arthur suddenly remembered something.  
“Alfred told me that you had some furniture you were willing to sell. I was wondering if you might show me some, although I can’t pay you until I find a job here,” Arthur ventured, eager to get off the topic of his personal failings.  
“Yes, I do! And do not worry about the money, I will put it on Alfred’s tab.”  
The two finished their tea and headed back into the storage room in the basement. Yao unlocked his gated storage unit and in a few minutes, Arthur had picked out a writing desk, a dresser and a lamp. His room would be spartan, but he didn’t want to spend too much. It all may have been on Alfred’s tab, but there was no way he wasn’t going to repay him. Arthur was determined not to be a leech.  
“I’ll come by with Alfred later today to pick them up. He’s a surprisingly efficient pack mule,” Arthur said.  
“Well, if Alfred is good at anything it is being an ass,” Yao replied with a smirk. 

With that, the two men headed upstairs, said their goodbyes and Arthur was back at Alfred’s apartment. When he opened the door, the smell of burning was gone. For the most part.

Alfred was sitting on the couch playing some video game Arthur didn’t know. But then again, he only really knew Mario and… Pong? He wasn’t sure of the name. Upon hearing the door click closed, Alfred looked up and quickly paused his game.  
“Took ya long enough. What were you doing, having a tea party?” he asked, dropping his controller to the couch and walking over to the kitchen, then stopped in his tracks to fix Arthur with an evil smirk, “Didja drool all over his dead-leaf collection?” he asked slowly. Arthur just scowled at him, but that was all the answer Alfred needed. He let out one of his obnoxious laughs, then, still gasping for breath, “Oh Mr Yao, sir, I simply adore your grape-flavoured green tea! Is that cherry udon? Wow, you’re my hero.” Alfred’s impersonation of Arthur’s voice was wildly high pitched, exaggerated, accompanied with lots of eyelash fluttering and clearly the funniest thing Alfred had ever heard. Arthur stood in stony silence until Alfred was finished wheezing.  
“Hey, take a joke would ya buddy? I’m only kidding... But that’s probably how it went down.” Arthur sighed and followed Alfred into the kitchen.  
“It’s called oolong,” he muttered.  
“What is?”  
“Never mind.” 

As it turned out, Alfred had made pancakes for them.  
“It’s more like lunch now,” Alfred remarked as he pulled a mountain of pancakes out of the rusted old oven. “I had to keep ‘em in there so they wouldn’t get cold, so I think they might have gone the teeniest bit dry,” Alfred said apologetically as he placed a plate in front of Arthur along with some butter and maple syrup. They smelled delicious. Arthur watched appreciatively as he let a pat of butter melt on top of a pancake before going in to take the first bite.  
“Woah hold up. You gotta put the syrup on too, them’s the rules,” Alfred said, watching intently as Arthur rolled his eyes, obliged, and was finally permitted to eat. Alfred looked almost… worried as Arthur brought the fork to his mouth, should he be afraid? 

Arthur felt a happy hum escape his lips. These were the best pancakes Arthur had ever had. Soft, sweet and spiced with cinnamon.  
“So, how are they?” Alfred asked, anxious. Arthur was tempted to tell him they were awful just to see the look on his face but decided that would be a little much. This was the only time he’d seen the man not radiate confidence.  
“Really quite good Alfred! Thank you.” Alfred sighed in relief and slumped into the chair.  
“Actually, I don’t know what I was worried about, you probably only eat, like, charcoal and tea.”  
“Well now I’m inclined to rescind my compliment if you’re going to insult me.” Arthur said, a mixture of false and real hurt in his voice. He just had rotten luck with the stove. And the toaster. And the oven. And knives, he’s not allowed to touch those.  
“I usually don’t cook but I thought, hey, that’s the sort of thing a good host does right? Makes food and shit? Don’t get used to it though. I hate cooking and I hate dishes even more. Consider it a special occasion.” Alfred began to saw through his stack with fervour.  
“I think you ought to look into it more. Even if that does mean dishes. You’re good!” Alfred shook his head and took a big swig of orange juice.  
“Heh, yeah. Sorry to break it to ya but Chef Jones is a one-trick pony. This is all I know how to make.”  
“Really? It doesn’t mean you can’t learn, I mean, how hard could it be?  
“I think you know the answer to that, bud,” Alfred replied with a wink. Stuffing his mouth again, he continued, “I’m just way too busy. And lazy.”  
“Well, anything I could do to help around the house that may help you free up your time a little?” Arthur offered.  
“We’ll see. Even if I had all the time in the world, I'd still be too lazy to go to classes or read a bunch of cookbooks,” Alfred and Arthur were both smirking now, each was eager to see who would give in first.  
“You don’t have to go to classes,” Arthur argued, “you could just read recipes.”  
“Fatal flaw, I can’t read,” Alfred said throwing his head back and dramatically touching the back of his hand to his forehead.  
“Is that so? You poor, poor man,” Arthur pouted with mock sympathy, “Then I suppose I can throw away all your comic books and funny cartoons with the subtitles hm?” Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and gasped.  
“A good comic tells itself through pictures. Plus, hot babes and explosions are a universal language,” he tutted  
“Ah, a man of refined tastes I see. Then I suppose you’ll have to get a teacher. Who taught you this trick Pony-boy?” Arthur asked, waving an accusatory slice of pancake with a smirk. He was eager to get out of having to eat McDonald’s takeout every night for the foreseeable future. But Suddenly he felt the temperature of the room drop, and Alfred began to pick at his plate. Arthur sensed he had said something wrong.  
“Uh, my brother, Mattie… Matthew taught me. He was always really into cooking and stuff. Got a job as a line cook and everything.”  
“Then we’ll have to hire him! Or at the very least you must introduce us. I really feel terrible I don’t know much about the American side of our family, especially after the Christmas cards and-” Arthur began to babble in discomfort and silently begged for the sudden mood change to pass. This strategy was unsurprisingly unsuccessful as Alfred wouldn’t meet his eye.  
“No can do. He’s uh, he’s… uh…” Alfred let out a shaky breath, Arthur’s eyes widened and he felt his stomach drop as the fork Alfred was gripping began to bend, “Mattie’s... dead.” 

Arthur felt his whole being deflate. Heavy shame weighed in his stomach and an unwelcome, awkward smile was plastered on his face. This was no time to smile, why was he smiling? Stop that.  
“Oh, um. I’m so sorry to hear that, I wish I could have known him,” he offered, not sure if he should try to comfort Alfred, ask him about it, or ignore the situation as much as possible. He opted to stay silent and put down his fork. Alfred did the same, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. There were several long moments of silence as, once again, Arthur found himself emotionally illiterate. He couldn’t say he felt particularly bereaved for Alfred’s brother though he knew what he should be feeling. A normal person would be shocked and saddened, not just… empty, right? They would know what to say to Alfred to make it all go away. Matthew was his cousin too. Family. He watched Alfred’s hands shake as he tried to lift another pancake to his mouth, he was breathing deeply and slowly, as if trying to stave off the telltale rattling breaths of grief. Arthur decided the adult thing to do would be to encourage Alfred to talk about it. That’s what all the billboards advertising therapists said to do.  
“How did he-”  
“I don’t want to talk about it. No offense, but you don’t really get it,” Alfred bristled, standing up from the table, still pointedly averting his eyes. Arthur looked up at him, wide-eyed and a little afraid. “Sorry, you just didn’t know him. You weren’t there,” Alfred mumbled, tossing his remaining pancakes in the trash and skulking off to his room.  
Arthur was left alone after that. He waited a few minutes to see if Alfred was coming back, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to, he finished up his now cold pancakes and washed the dishes. He needed to do that much at least. He felt his hands go cold and shaky; he wasn’t used to being in such volatile situations. His family had never really… shared... feelings. Well, most of the time. With a family of five brothers, bruised egos and black eyes were pretty normal, until they all just stopped talking altogether that is. Each of his older brothers had skipped town on the first train out the moment they graduated high school. Arthur hadn’t minded much but his mother hadn’t been so happy. She used to pinch his cheek and tell him what a good boy he was for staying, now… well. He hadn’t exactly been able to tell her where he went. The thugs he owed would not hesitate if they thought his parents knew where he’d gone.  
He was a shitty son and now he was being a shitty cousin. He had the empathy of dead-eyed goldfish and a chronic habit of sticking his foot in his mouth. Now here he was again, thinking about himself while Alfred, a boy who seemed immovably cheerful even when he lived above, and regularly fought with, a murderer; Alfred, whose brother was dead -  
He felt his face heat up and his heart quicken. Alfred was right, Arthur didn’t care about Matthew, he didn’t even know the boy, and he didn't care about Alfred’s grief, he was just embarrassed by his own incompetence. He wanted to care, to be selfless like Alfred was and-- 

Shut up Arthur. You’re being melodramatic. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Move on, nobody cares. 

Quite right, it didn’t matter. It was just the stress of the move that was heightening feelings he didn't really have. Ignore it. Forget it. 

After he finished the dishes, Arthur pulled on his coat, gathered together all of his pocket change and an airport map of Chicago, he was going for a walk and probably wouldn’t be back until dark. Hopefully, Alfred would be asleep by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and thanks for your patience! I am so sorry I can't be regular updater but I'll try to get a little burst of chapters published before school really gets going!


	4. Big City

The smell of fall in Chicago was distinctly different and yet hauntingly similar to the smell of fall in Dunwich. There was no seashore smell or sound of waves hitting imposing cliffs off in the distance, but there was that feeling of cold humidity coming off the waterfront and the smell of leaves rotting in the grass. As Arthur wandered further and further from his cousin’s house, he was amazed by the city that surrounded him. Dunwich was quaint and quiet, stone cottages and a distilled sense of pastoral simplicity in the salty air. Chicago was anything but that. If it could all be summed up in a single word, Arthur would have to choose industrial. Everything was in brick, glass and steel; skyscrapers new and old were herded tightly into the downtown complex and the whole place just radiated history and innovation. He spent the majority of the afternoon wandering around the downtown area, looking in shops and seeing the sights, careful not to spend any money because the coins in his pocket were the only things getting him on the train home. Luckily for him, it was a lovely day and there was enough to see for free.  
He stalked through the park and the riverside, reading the plaques on statues of men whose names he’d heard before but only rang a bell as ‘American’. Eventually his sightseeing brought him downtown. There there was a fascinating canopy of steel railway supported by great, riveted beams. He was crossing the street and admiring one of these new kinds of city trees when he heard a car honking right next to him. His initial instinct was to verbally incapacitate the idiot who couldn’t respect pedestrians crossing at the light, but when he looked over he saw Feliciano sticking as much of his upper body as he could out the window and waving at him with a huge smile on his face. The man was driving a simple red sedan with a large, deeply uncomfortable looking blond man buckled into the passenger’s seat. “Hey! Arthur! Look over here!” he was shouting, drawing irked stares from other passersby. Arthur tried to shrink into his coat and kept mum. He could imagine truly little more embarrassing. Feeling eyes burn through him, he considered walking away as if he hadn’t heard but felt it would be difficult to get away with. Instead, he put on his customer service smile and waved back.  
“Ludwig and I are going to the Cultural Center; did you want to come?” he called. Oh boy. An unexpected social situation and public embarrassment? It was almost too good to be true. Feliciano looked at him hopefully while the blond man was whispering frantically (but uselessly) about something. Probably about the light that has just changed to green and the string of impatient city drivers honking death threats. Arthur knew the answer had to be yes or be mowed down where he stood while he tried to make up an excuse. He motioned desperately for Feliciano to follow him to the sidewalk so they could speak properly and made a mad dash for safety as people began to drive around the little sedan.

Soon, introductions had been made and Arthur was leaning on the rolled down window of the passenger side to talk to Feliciano over the blond man, Ludwig’s, head. In the back seat was a small mountain of shopping bags and art supplies. Hm, Arthur thought, I didn’t know Feliciano had an artistic inclination. The pile wobbled treacherously even as the car loitered in neutral.  
“You don’t really seem to have room for me, Feliciano…” Arthur said warily, not sure if he actually wanted to go with them now that he wasn’t under duress. Feliciano just looked a little confused and glanced over his shoulder into the back seat.  
“What? Of course we have room! Just squish up here with me and Ludwig!” he said as if this were the most obvious idea in the world. Ludwig took the opportunity to look stoically shocked.  
“That’s highly illegal Feliciano, I think it would be a little ironic if I was caught in an overstuffed clown-car,” Ludwig admonished. His voice was low and gruff, tinged with some faint European accent only ghosting through the spaces between vowels.  
“It’s only a few more minutes, Mr. Chief of Police,” Arthur did a double take at both the revelation that Feliciano was very well connected and the childish petulance with which he addressed said connections, “we’ll be fine.” Ludwig rolled his eyes and sighed, this was clearly a familiar conversation. Damn. Arthur checked his watch and saw that he still had a few hours until he could safely assume Alfred was asleep and keep avoiding him forever. Why the hell not? An afternoon out with a restaurateur and the chief of police. That would sure be one for the scrapbook.

Just as Feliciano had said, Arthur was only awkwardly sandwiched between the two men for a few minutes before they came to a rolling stop near an exceptionally large building all done up in stone columns and arched windows. They walked in and were immediately treated to a decadent stairwell and marble entryway.  
“Very nice,” Arthur said to Ludwig, who grunted in response and pointedly walked away from Arthur.  
“It gets better!” squeaked Feliciano from behind him, scampering around the room trying to decide what to show off first. “And don’t mind Luddy, I don’t think he wanted to play tour guide today.” Then, placing a hand in front of his mouth to block it from Ludwig’s view, he whispered (though it was just as loud as his speaking voice), “He’s pretty shy you know.” Ludwig didn’t react to this, pretending to inspect the bannister of the stairwell. But Arthur saw his lip twitch into an even more pronounced scowl. He wasn’t sure that a man of that size and intimidating presence could feel anything resembling shyness, but he wasn’t going to argue.  
Soon, Feliciano had taken babbling cheerfully at him and Ludwig about the art, architecture and history of the building, blissfully unaware of the icy barrier between his two compatriots. He clung to Ludwig’s arm as he spoke (was that uncomfortable level of affection an Italian thing or a Feliciano thing?), gesturing wildly at points of interest, occasionally slowing to breathe or check that Arthur was still listening. His eyes were wide with excitement even though by the depth of knowledge he was showing off, Arthur had to assume Feliciano had been here tens, if not hundreds of times. It was impossible not to be sucked into that kind of joyful singularity. 

And, incredibly, he wasn’t close to being the only one.

Feliciano’s energetic pull had soon caught Ludwig, who was listening intently to the little man on his arm and smiling almost… dreamily. If Arthur hadn’t seen it for himself, he would have believed the moon was cheese before believing Ludwig could even make a face like that. As they walked, Arthur watched Feliciano’s event horizon expand as it seemed no one was safe from the gravity of his enthusiasm. Arthur noticed that the other people in the building (tourists mostly, by the look of their tacky clothes and oversized cameras dangling from their necks) had begun travelling, coincidentally, at the exact same pace as Feliciano, nodding in interest when he made obscure observations. Though he was sure the other two hadn’t noticed (both being absorbed in different but related appreciative frenzies) Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle. This had really been a better evening out than he had thought it would be, even though he was sensing that nagging third-wheel discomfort. 

About two hours later, they emerged from the heavy doors of the neo-classical experience with a very tired Feliciano and a much more informed audience.  
“That was really something Feliciano, where did you learn all this stuff?” Arthur asked as the group walked down the sidewalk, hoping to avoid crossing the terrifyingly chaotic intersection.  
“Oh, Feli knows almost everything about the architectural landmarks in this city, he’s a marvel really,” Ludwig answered fondly, clearly in a much better mood. Feliciano went a little pink in the cheeks and shook his head.  
“Oh, I’m useless and you know it,” Feliciano said with a smile then he turned to Arthur, “you should see me trying to do taxes, or read a map, or catch a ball! That’s really funny.” The two men laughed together, one a breathy, bell-sound and the other a baritone chuckle.  
The sun was setting and the wind was chilly, but the city seemed warm as that joyful singularity expanded to include two. 

Arthur felt his own smile widen as he watched from orbit.

Pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders, Arthur walked a little behind them. Now that the tour was over was he supposed to still be here? Certainly he had been invited but… he either needed to include himself or excuse himself. The latter always seemed more difficult to do with grace, so he opted to try his luck at conversation.  
“How did you two meet anyway?” Arthur asked.  
“Well, if you want to know,” Feliciano said, his energy returning.  
“Please Feli, it’s not really the kind of story -” Ludwig began to say, his smile gone, face red, but Feliciano plowed on.  
“He arrested me...Well he didn’t all-the way arrest me, but he got me in handcuffs!”  
“Please, Feli -”  
“Oh, but it’s really funny now!”  
“It is not,” He said firmly, then added to Arthur, “just a misunderstanding about a minor misdemeanor.” Feliciano pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.  
“You’re no fun.”

Arthur was then shut out of the conversation until they reached the car. Clearly, he had said something wrong. Probably poor tact to remind someone about the time they nearly sent their friend to jail. Although… if Ludwig hadn’t been as intimidating and inarguably masculine as he was, Arthur may have thought that friend was the wrong word. Feliciano sure, maybe he was that way, but Ludwig? Not a chance. They weren’t...well… as long as it was just in private maybe… no. It was impossible, he was being stupid. Feliciano was just clingy, and that answer had been so strange only because he had embarrassed them. Maybe it had been more than a misdemeanor and Ludwig didn’t want to admit he was friends with a criminal. 

“It was nice to meet you Arthur,” said Ludwig stiffly, shaking Arthur’s hand as the three of them reached the car, “did you need a ride home?” The sun was nearly down and the streetlights would be coming on soon. Arthur was about to accept but Feliciano’s eyes darted knowingly to his, then cut in.  
“Luddy, I um, I think Arthur knows the way home by himself… he, uh, he’s too shy to show us his apartment because he’s still moving in and it’s messy but it’s not far from here, right Arthur?” Arthur felt a pit in his stomach, he knew how to take a hint. He nodded and explained he would be fine while Feliciano ushered Ludwig to the car. Once Ludwig was buckled into the passenger’s seat, Feliciano came back to Arthur and took him firmly by the shoulders. Arthur was immediately paralyzed but became nearly catatonic when Feliciano placed a kiss on each of his cheeks. A soft whisper tickled his ear as Feliciano spoke gravely and with perhaps… an undertone of threat?  
“That was a close call. I’ll cover that for you because it was my fault, but I really don’t wanna lie again.” 

With that, Feliciano pulled away, his warm smile replaced like it had never left.  
“And here,” he took Arthur’s hand and placed a few bills in it, “for the taxi.”  
The two men drove away and left Arthur in a stunned silence. He felt his eyes, wide as tennis balls, watch their taillights disappear into traffic. Cover for him? What was that supposed to mean? The museum? The taxi? His rudeness? 

Sitting in the back of the taxi, he tried to comb through the evening for something he must have done wrong for Feliciano to lose all patience with him. He drew a blank, and on that blank he drew an endless amount of made-up reasons. The evening had gone very well until those last few moments, maybe he’d just not picked up on their discomfort before then?  
All he wanted to do was get home and finally sleep on that bed and hopefully not have to see Alfred until morning. 

***

One of the advantages to living with a man who is essentially an eager-to-please child was that grudges were never held. In fact, transgressions were totally forgotten with the unspoken condition that neither bring it up again. This suited Arthur just fine. As long as Alfred didn’t say he was mad about it, he had permission not to dwell on it. 

The rest of the week passed in this quiet way, Alfred going to work every morning and Arthur hitting the pavement to try and find a job. The grey rhythm of his resume hitting countertops overlaid the thudding backbeat of his shoes on the sidewalk. As the days reached their finales, a song kept getting stuck in his head. It was called Sorry, We’re Not Hiring Right Now: A Looping Soundtrack of Rejection. Monday, the tune was bearable, but by Friday afternoon, Arthur was ready to tear his hair out.  
If anyone needed to gauge how Arthur was feeling, they need only know that his (already remarkably low) levels of optimism began to be directly tied to how much his feet hurt. Monday morning was one thing but by Wednesday... his pinchy, fake-leather dress-shoes had made his feet swell up nearly a whole size and a half. Arthur sighed and tried to massage his aching appendages without resorting to taking his shoes off in public. 

By Friday, this was not a concern of his and he fully submerged his feet in a public fountain.

His job hunt was not an absolute no-win game though. With the amount of paper he passed out it would have been more impressive if he hadn’t landed even a single interview. No, he was certainly charming enough to get to the interviewing stage a couple times that week, though had little luck there due to his lack of experience with computers or his lack of American driver’s license or, once, his lack of “productive aura” whatever the fuck that meant.

But the biggest blow came after all that.  
On Friday he had handed in his resume at a large chain department store where the manager was too apathetic to care much beyond “You’re available full time?” and “Can you lift thirty pounds?”

He was hired on the spot.

The minimum wage was $4.25 and hour and the shifts were spotty, but it was something. It was something.

All he had to do was fill out some paperwork and he could start his training the next day… all he had to do was...

“Excuse me, I see here that you require a Social Security Number? I- I’m afraid I’ve only moved here quite recently, and I haven’t got one, see, and-”  
“Well that’s no problem Mr. Kirkland, we can just as easily use the numbers on your work permit.”  
“Ah, I see. That’s good to hear. I- uh, I’m terribly sorry that I’ve just left the paper at home, dreadfully absentminded of me. May I continue filling this out there instead?”  
Whether or not the answer was a yes or no didn’t matter, that woman never saw him again. 

This was not going to work. 

He would either have to get some documents faked or find someone either desperate enough or shady enough to employ him. If only he knew any shady characte-  
Oh.  
Arthur sat down on a park bench, the sun setting behind him and the wind kicking up clouds of dust and gravel from the road. He removed his shoes and began to work his knuckles into the arch of his right foot. The sound of cars rushing past echoed the rustling of brown leaves scuttling across the sidewalk. Arthur felt his stare go glassy as he retreated into his thoughts to a familiar internal debate. Is it worth it?

He did indeed know a shady character and had even agreed to (been strong armed into) having dinner with him this weekend. He had almost entirely forgotten about that. He hadn’t even told Alfred… though maybe it was better that he didn’t. Alfred was definitely the kind of person who would insist on coming along and Arthur could think of a million diverse ways he would prefer to die than being caught in the crossfire of those two at a dinner table.  
On one hand - job, new life, independence, self-respect.  
On the other - mob debt, dealing with Ivan if he couldn’t pay it back, alienating everyone he had met here if they found out.  
This hadn’t worked out well for him the last time but maybe this would be different. Maybe he would just have to try again? It wasn’t like he was borrowing thousands of dollars. This would be hundreds at best. Less than five-hundred, he was sure. Every day living off charity was like hammering a new nail into his pride. Besides, he would definitely be able to land a job soon after… if Ivan could help him that is.  
Or maybe Ivan would laugh in his face. Maybe he would thrash him for insinuating he was a criminal. Maybe he would help him but then Arthur wouldn’t be able to make good so he would snap his arm like a toothpick. The man could probably do it with one hand. Maybe he would have to run again. He didn’t think there were any more secret-relative’s Christmas cards hiding under Alfred’s bed. This was probably his only chance. It had only been a week after all… he was sure no one expected him to make it instantly. He would have to find another option that’s all.  
***  
That Friday, Arthur got home much later than Alfred (as usual) due in part to not heading home until the last business closed and in part to public transit being slow. Also disgusting. Arthur could not over emphasize that. So, by the time Arthur had wearily shouldered the door open and kicked off his uncomfortable dress shoes, Alfred was already lounging on the couch  
and opening his box of Chinese takeout.  
“Oh, hey Art! How was the job hunt today?” Alfred asked, breaking apart a pair of flimsy wooden chopsticks. Arthur felt his shoulders sag and he flopped onto the couch beside his cousin before he rasped, “Oh you know, same old same old. Little luck and even less money.” Arthur reached out to grab the second box of chow mein Alfred was holding out for him.  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Yes, I went down to the West side today and passed around my resume there. A couple said they’d pass them on but I think most were just being polite. I don’t think I should be expecting any calls back.”  
“Oh,” Alfred said sympathetically, “That’s rough buddy. Any theories on how to get some of those calls back?”  
“If I had, I’d have employed them already,” Arthur snapped, angrily taking a bite of over-salted noodles.  
“Soooorry, just trying to help Art. If you want, I can just sit here silently while you continue to not get hired,” Alfred snipped back, hurt.  
“Yes, well, your silence would more often than not be appreciated. How do you manage to both never shut up and never stop eating at the same time?”  
“I’m multi-talented,” Alfred emphasised the point by opening his mouth to show off the half-chewed spring roll he had just spoken around.  
“Oh disgusting! Are you six?” Arthur hurried to turn his smile into a grimace. He shouldn’t laugh at such childish things.  
“At heart?” Alfred smirked, “Always.”  
“That’s abundantly clear.”  
The two men fell into a pleasant silence and lost their train of thought to some after-work sitcom re-run.  
“So,” Alfred said eventually, “what’s the deal with your applications then?  
“I, uh I just have to keep handing them out. It’ll work out eventually,” Arthur mumbled, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.  
“Hmm, you know they say that’s what crazy people do right? Just... try the same thing over and over, expecting something different to happen.”  
“Oh yeah? Well, who told you that?”  
“Oh, you know... they did. The big they in the sky,” Alfred explained, waving his arms vaguely, gesturing to the universe.  
“Ah, you speak with aliens now.”  
“No! Well, not yet, but… stop trying to change the subject! You gotta do some introspective soul-searching so you can start making some dough,” Alfred pointed an accusing finger at Arthur’s nose, which he shoved away. He supposed he would. Maybe it would be worth it in the long run to make an honest start of himself, deception only ever came back to haunt you after all.  
“I… alright, you’ve really called me out here and I don’t appreciate it.” This sent Alfred into a wild cackle.  
“Don’t worry about it too much Art, there ain’t too much out there right now and you’ve only been looking for a week,” Alfred said, placing a heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Besides, you’re way employable! The only way you’re never getting a job is if it were, like, illegal.” Arthur couldn’t help but let a toothy grimace flash across his face. His palms went cold and began to sweat. He felt his knees buckle despite his being seated.  
“Hahaha... Illegal? Me? Never… hehe”  
“Yeah obviously, I mean, without the right papers, you can basically forget about finding honest work,” he said, “lotta people living low out there, just washing windshields on street corners or working for peanuts.” Alfred let out a low whistle, “Man, best case you live incognito, worst case you get deported. I don’t envy those unlucky sons of bitches; you know what I’m saying?” Alfred shook his head and leaned his cheek on his hand, his eyes going glassy remembering something. What that something was, Arthur wasn’t sure, but it seemed to be unhappy.

Arthur gulped. Things were not looking good for his clean slate.


	5. The Dinner

Saturday. The day Arthur would (at best) make a new, very violent acquaintance, or (at worst)… disappear without a trace with no one to remember him and probably end up buried in a shallow grave on the edge of the dump where his body might be eaten by stray cats. Well, Alfred might remember him, so that was...something. 

Why had Ivan asked him to dinner and not brunch or something? At least then he would already be locked in a trunk and not writhing with anxiety. The waiting, the waiting, that waiting! Arthur bounced his leg under the table but kept his face carefully relaxed. Alfred was babbling to him about something or other over lunch and Arthur had been trying to be nonchalant all day. He didn't want Alfred to ask any questions. He hoped it was working. But, eventually, he decided that this was actually exhausting and he didn't want to do it any more and holed himself up in his room with Peter Pan to calm his nerves. He sat on his windowsill, watching the Darlings meet the Lost Boys for the first time as he had many times before, and waited. What he learned is that Time thinks it’s really funny to watch people squirm. The minutes would squash and stretch and Arthur would check his watch in a panic only to find that only two minutes had passed since he last checked his watch in a panic. Other times, he would look lazily at the time only to find that an entire hour and a half was gone. 

For some reason, there was only one thing that kept coming in and out of his mind like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. ‘What should I wear?’ This seemed to him a bit of a silly question, but that was probably why it was all he could think about without beginning to shake like a leaf. Would it matter that much? It was just two neighbours having dinner. Just two guys,-- hanging out. One a disgraced tea peddler and one a giant Russian killer.  
Maybe he should try to look casual, maybe it would help him pretend he wasn’t on the verge of puking his guts out all night. But maybe he should dress up a little? Would it be disrespectful to show up looking like a vagabond? He needed to look respectable, but still shady enough to definitely not be a cop. That’s all. Easy.

A half-hour later, Arthur decided on his (one) dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to (casual but respectable), and a pair of slacks (ironed but not too ironed). He tried his best to get his hair at least parted properly, but trying to tame his hair with mere comb and water was comical. Like trying to save the Titanic with a dinghy, the task was doomed to fail and frankly, embarrassing to attempt.

Arthur looked himself over in the bathroom mirror and tried to pull his collar straight. “Perfect… hopefully,” he said with a gulp and made his way out the door. 

“Hey, Artie!” Alfred’s voice made Arthur cringe into his collar and move to lace up his shoes faster. He was hoping to slip out without any awkward questions. “Where ya headed out to dressed up like that?” He was hanging upside down off the front of the sofa, his glasses sliding into his hairline and a game controller in his hand. Arthur suddenly recognized the bleeps and bloops of that video game with the little green elf boy on the front.  
“Oh, you know… out. Just out. Don’t wait up,” Arthur said, tying up his shoes and running a hand through his hair to try and distract from how he felt his eyes shifting. He had always been a terrible liar. Alfred wiggled his eyebrows knowingly and cackled so hard he fell off the couch. Arthur could already feel his face turning beet-red. He could not handle direct secret-keeping like this. Please let me go, Alfred, I’m begging you he thought, trying to project his plea into Alfred’s mind.  
“You got a date?! Why, Artie! You old dog! You’ve been out picking up chicks instead of hitting the bricks! Hahahahaha! I can’t believe it! You’re redder n’ a firetruck!”  
“Shut up Alfred! You’re going to make me late!” Arthur growled, launching a shoe at Alfred, hitting him in the stomach.  
“Oof!”  
“That’s what you get. Goodnight,” and with that, Arthur slammed the door shut and slouched his way down the stairs, listening to Alfred’s muffled cackles fade into the background.

Under Arthur’s arm was a bottle of mid-range wine. Something French. Arthur wasn’t really sure if it was supposed to be good or not, but he had paid enough for it. Well, Alfred had paid enough for it. Not that Alfred knew that, but Arthur supposed it was ok because, in the long run, he intended to be the one who paid for it- ugh. These debt games were getting complicated. As his fist hovered over the scuffed white door of the second-floor apartment, he felt himself not breathing but couldn't do anything about it. Not knowing what to expect on the other side of the door had his imagination reeling. It had no trouble assuring him a pile of dead bodies and bloody knives awaited him once his fist unfroze itself and knocked. He took a deep breath and wished he was back home.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

The thump of heavy footsteps on hardwood and the double-time staccato of Arthur’s heart were thudding in tandem in his ears. He heard the clicking of several locks, as heavy and numerous as Yao’s had been. The smell of something savoury drifted out from under the door. Arthur could feel the sweat of his palm building uncomfortably in his own clenched fist. He wiped his right hand feverishly against his pant leg. Ivan would surely want to shake hands. God, he hoped not. 

Finally, the door swung open and there was Ivan. 

He was… shorter than Arthur remembered, still a good half-foot taller than him, but not… so large as he had been picturing. His hair was still as unfathomably blonde and his frame as intimidatingly Ivan, but now he was wearing a cream-coloured turtleneck, a warm smile and most notably, a light pink apron that read something in Cyrillic.  
“Arthur! You are only a little bit early for the pirozhki, they will be ready very soon!” His voice was pleasant and warm in that way that welcoming Slavic accents can be. This was unexpected. Years of training to be a proper house guest activated inside him, extending Arthur’s hand and pulling his lips into a smile. His instincts had apparently made the executive decision to plough through the touching bit before his hand had the chance to sweat again. Ivan looked at the outstretched hand and something flickered across his face in an instant so brief it was gone before it was ever there. “Ah, please, come inside first,” he said, just as warmly as before. Arthur did as he was told and Ivan took his hand in a bone-crushing grip as soon as he crossed the threshold. “Welcome, welcome! Ah! I see you brought a drink!”  
“Er, yes, it’s um, Chateau Margaux I bel-”  
“Yes, do not worry, I have proper alcohol here, but it is nice you bought us a chaser,” Ivan grinned, taking the bottle from under Arthur’s arm, not even glancing at the label. “Have a seat wherever you like.” Arthur sat gingerly on a plain wooden chair in the living room and Ivan passed him a large glass of - Arthur took a tentative sip- vodka. Of course. All the better to steady the nerves with my dear. He downed a mouthful and, with Ivan humming lowly by the stove, took the opportunity to stare. 

Ivan’s apartment, like Alfred and Yao’s, had the same full-floor layout with two towers, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom. That was to be expected, however, it seemed skeletal in comparison. It was reminiscent of a broke college kid’s first apartment before they could afford furniture. Arthur’s eyes ghosted over an average-sized box TV and the single sagging armchair placed directly in front of it. The kitchen was just a simple table and two chairs. He had the same stove as Alfred, leading Arthur to assume it had come with the building. Unlike Alfred though, the refrigerator and microwave were similarly run down and ill-fitting. His ‘curtains’ were instead plastic blinds that looked like they hadn’t been raised in months, if ever. They were coated in a thick brown dust that Arthur was sure would be nearly solid by now. The apartment felt vast and unlived in with only these small islands of domesticity. 

God, he was in a psychopath's murder den. Arthur took the rest of the glass and felt his throat burn.

“Come! Sit, Arthur. The food is ready,” Ivan called. Arthur turned to see Ivan balancing a couple plates piled with steaming golden pastries; a heavy salad littered with ham and drenched in mayo, a creamy slaw and warm bread. All of it seemed to be home-made and their smell filled the apartment with a homey warmth that, for a moment, filled the spaces between. 

“My! You’ve really gone all out, you shouldn’t have…” said Arthur, unable to stifle his impressed smile. The dissonance between the apartment and the man in the pink apron standing before him was startling. Ivan returned his smile and undid his apron before he sat down across from Arthur.  
“This really is not so so much, but I cook to impress when I have guests,” Ivan said, spooning large globs of salad onto his plate.  
“Ah,” Arthur chuckled, helping himself to what he assumed to be the pirozhki, “do you entertain often?”  
“Arthur,” Ivan chided, “look around you and ask yourself if I entertain often.”  
“It is a little… minimalist.”  
“It is barren. Bleaker than Siberia. You do not need to be polite with me Arthur. I see things how they are.” Arthur sincerely doubted that he would take that advice to heart. Ivan was still dangerous and he carried himself like a man who had never met anything, or anyone, he couldn’t beat to a pulp. “I normally do not spend much time here, but you are afraid of me, and would likely not like to be seen in public with me,” Ivan said frankly, filling both his and Arthur’s glasses with more vodka, this time topping them off with coke. Arthur nearly dropped his glass.  
“Wh-what? I- I’m not-” Arthur spluttered. Ivan giggled softly.  
“I am not blind or stupid. I know how I look. I know how people look at me.” Arthur really wasn’t sure how to follow up to that so he took a sip of his coke and vodka. They sat in silence and Ivan watched him intently for a while, occasionally taking a bite of his food or sipping his drink. Arthur did the same but tried to make only the bare minimum amount of eye contact for politeness’ sake. 

“Tell me, Arthur,” Ivan said suddenly, making Arthur bite his cheek in surprise as he chewed, “where did you grow up?”  
“Oh, well,” Arthur began, glad Ivan was throwing him conversational softballs, “In England, as I’m sure you can tell by the accent, Dunwich to be precise.” Ivan nodded thoughtfully and looked like he was committing this fact to memory.  
“I am actually not very good at identifying accents in English. I could tell you were not American, but I was going to guess Australian,” he said earnestly. Arthur felt himself huff with laughter that he tried to hide quickly behind his napkin.  
“Australian? Really? That’s… that’s quite funny Ivan,” he said still hiding behind the napkin. Ivan’s smile had also grown but he looked a little confused.  
“Why? You all cut off all the consonants and all the vowels are so… open. Not very different at all.”  
“Oh, they’re quite different! You see if I were Australian I might sound like, oh…” Arthur paused to come up with a suitable example phrase, “G’doi moit, let’s put sum shreemp awn thuh bahbie.”  
Ivan was silent for a moment, taking this in, then said: “This is stupid, no one speaks like this.”  
This time Arthur couldn’t help but laugh into his food. Ivan smiled back at him. He looked happy to not be the only one laughing. “Yeah, I think my impressions need work.”  
Arthur found himself sipping more regularly at his drink.

As the evening wore on, Arthur was having troubles pinning down his opinion on Ivan. He was the kind of man who could change the temperature of the room in an instant and whether or not this was intentional made it all the more confusing. Ivan was charming and open, almost jolly in his laughter and eagerness to share. He liked to ask questions and he took great interest in Arthur’s answers. Arthur told him about England and his life there, his friends, his family, his hobbies - small talk- but the moment the conversation turned the other way, Arthur was reminded with a chill what kind of man he was sitting across from.  
“And you have not been into that pub since?” Ivan asked, an incredulous smirk on his face. The food was long gone and the two men were now lounging on their uncomfortable wooden chairs, Arthur nursing a shallow glass of wine while Ivan clutched the bottle of vodka in one hand, sipping from it occasionally. Arthur was feeling pleasantly buzzed and watched Ivan totter onto the back legs of his chair.  
“Er, no. That particular barkeep is known to hold a grudge. If you’re banned for life, you’re banned for life,” Arthur chuckled, “I suppose I’ll have to wait until he’s dead to try that party trick again.” Ivan just shook his head and giggled.  
“Once, a club owner tried this with me, um, McDonovan? McLellan? Something like this. His lifelong ban was not so long as he hoped, I don’t think,” he smiled as he took another swig from his bottle.  
“He let you back in?” Ivan looked sidelong at Arthur’s confused expression and winked.  
“I had to wait until he was dead.”  
Arthur took a swig of wine and felt the lip of the glass shaking against his own mouth.  
“E-excuse me, I’m just going to the bathroom,” Arthur said politely, trying to suppress the quiver in his voice. Ivan’s face did not change, he just nodded and watched Arthur stumble down the hallway. The hallway leading to all the sleeping quarters was equally sparse, but Arthur could not help but notice that the door at the end of the room was open. It seemed Ivan had the room directly below his. It was almost identical to his own, with just a simple bed and a dresser tucked into the corner. The only splash of colour was the cluster of flowers on top of the dresser. They were bunched around a photo of a girl who looked remarkably like Ivan himself, the same short silvery hair and blue eyes. Her gentle smile looked out at nothing in particular from her little frame. She looked too young to be a mother… a sister? Oh boy. Arthur ducked his head and rushed into the bathroom. He had already learned his lesson about that.  
Arthur flicked on the light and caught a glimpse of himself in the water-stained mirror. His face had gone sallow, or more so than usual, and he could feel his mouth drying up. He ran his hands over his eyes and felt their clamminess on his eyelids. Ivan had just, he’d said… maybe he was joking? Don’t be naive Arthur. You’ve heard about what he is. He practically admitted it! You need to get out of here. Arthur ran the tap and filled his hands unsteadily with water. He was about to splash it over his face before he thought better of it. It might get his hair wet, or his collar, then Ivan would wonder what was going on. He settled for wiping his face on the hem of his shirt and tucking it back into his pants. He moved to open the door but then thought he ought to flush the toilet to keep up appearances. The rush of water being sucked into the sewer followed him as he walked with his shoulders distinctly straight and his chin purposefully up so he looked, in his mind, put together.  
When he got back to the table, Ivan had refilled Arthur’s wine and was rocking on the back legs of his chair again, humming tunelessly to himself, expression blank. He opened his eyes a little blearily when Arthur sat back down across from him, a drunken smile on his face.  
“Ah, Arthur! I was just thinking, I wonder if you’ve been on a picnic before?” Arthur almost felt his neck snap from conversational whiplash and couldn’t, for a moment, speak at all.  
“Errr, yes?” he said, gulping. He had no idea where Ivan was going with this. Ivan just smiled again and nodded to himself like he’d just won a bet.  
“That must have been nice.”  
“Have… have you not?”  
“Hmm?” Ivan said, staring blankly at Arthur now as if he’d just tuned into the conversation.  
“Have you never been on a picnic before?”  
“...No.”  
Ivan looked into the bottom of his vodka bottle, trying to determine if there were any drops to salvage. Arthur did not know how he wasn’t dead from alcohol poisoning. He waited a few moments, staring expectantly at the man making an overlong vodka inspection. Not sure what to say to Ivan’s strange admission, Arthur took this as an opportunity to make his exit.  
“Well, I had a lovely time, Ivan, just lovely. Splendid food, thank you so much for inviting me.” Arthur escape pleasantries began to pour from his mouth as he made his way over to the closet and began to pull his shoes on. A nervous smile was pulling at his cheeks. He wanted to stop but the thought of what Ivan had said earlier about the club owner and felt his grin grow wider. Ivan looked at him solemnly, the softly drunk air gone. He stood up, unintentionally but unavoidably looming as he shuffled over to Arthur, who was backed against the corner between the coat closet and the wall.  
“I see that I have said something wrong,” Ivan said. He seemed disappointed but unsurprised. This, of course, made Arthur jabber faster. “No, not at all! It’s been just - just a lovely time and...I love how you’ve decorated the place. You’re an excellent cook, I wish I had as much talent, I-” Suddenly, Arthur’s whole body froze and he swore he could feel his very blood congeal. Ivan had placed a large finger on his lips. Gently, but firm enough that the message was clear. Shut up. Ivan rubbed his eye with the heel of his other hand and yawned.  
“Please, it is too late for your rabbity babbling.” Arthur choked on his next words and stood stock still as Ivan looked sleepily at the clock. 1 am. Arthur noted that Ivan’s hands were very warm and felt his face heat up to match. His back was against the wall and he was holding a shoe in one hand. Ivan was very tall, wasn’t he? Arthur remembered how bearish he had looked when he had entered the apartment building in his heavy coat. Now he was thinking that the coat may have been less bulky than he had previously assumed.  
Ivan lowered his finger from Arthur’s lips and reached it out to shake his hand. “See you around, yes? I like to talk to you, when you are less jumpy of course. But that is something I always get used to.”  
All Arthur could do was nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He just hoped Ivan was drunk enough not to notice how red his face was and walked out the door, one shoe still in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments and reviews are appreciated and keep me going! Don't hesitate to let me know about any mistakes you spot, whether in the text or in the setting. I love Chicago but I sure don't live there :)


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